Of _course_ I did not mean that, but he took it as if I had said something horrible. Never did I expect to see my husband look at me as he looked then, or to hear him speak to me in a tone so cold and cruel, or call me names as if he were a common costermonger instead of the gentleman I had always found him. "Polly," he said, "because you are behaving like a maniac, am I to do so too?--to turn against my daughter for nothing at all--my dear, good child, who never grieved me in her life--and at this time of all times, when her little heart is full----" I could bear no more. I burst into tears. I believe the boy was digging potatoes not twenty yards away, but I did not care; in the middle of Collins Street I must have done the same. To be misunderstood by the whole world was a trifle indeed, but to be misunderstood by _him_ an insupportable calamity. It was but for a moment, after all. No sooner did he see my tears than he flung away his fork, hurried me behind a shed, and took me into his arms to comfort me, as he had always done. All piggy as he was, I threw mine around his neck, forgiving him everything for the sake of his constant love. "There, there," he crooned, "don't cry, pet. What a baby it is, after all! You know as well as I do that you are just cutting off your nose to spite your face--now don't you, sweetheart?" "Oh, Tom," I wailed, "if you would _only_ understand!" "Well, I do," he assured me, ruffling my hair with his grubby paw. "I know all about it, little woman. And I'm ready to do anything in the world to please you. I always am." "Then you won't stand godfather to that child--without me?" "Suppose we both stand together? We've done everything together so far." "I can't. I have refused." "Then write and say you have changed your mind." "It's too late. And they don't want me to change it, Tom--they don't indeed; they only asked me out of politeness; they did not press me the least little bit. I am sure they were delighted when I declined. They had calculated upon it." "Pooh! That's your imagination." "It is _not_. What, are you going to accuse me of not speaking the truth?" "No, no, my dear; but sometimes--well, never mind; we are all liable to make mistakes. And when I think of the letter they wrote, asking you--and I'm sure they meant it----" "They could not have meant it, because when I only half declined--I left it open to them to ask again--they would not take the hint. Oh, they don't want me for anything now, and I would die sooner than ever force myself on them again!" Tom inquired, in a grave tone, what I had said in my letter--what reason I had given for declining, or half-declining, in the first instance; and I told him. "And, dear," I urged, "if I am too old--and they accepted that as a valid excuse--what are you?"